Avoiding Confrontation
by Blue van Meer
Summary: 'Then he looks at the mess he's caused, textbooks strewn all across the hall. He knows he can't just crash into some guy, slam him into a wall and leave him to pick up the pieces.' Eventual Mike/Samuel TGP  slash. Rated T for language.
1. We Had a Rocket

_...We had a rocket, it fell out of orbit..._

* * *

><p>The last thing Mike wants to be is ambushed by some kid with a camera on his first day back at school.<p>

Well, guess what. God _isn't fucking listening_.

He can't even remember this dude's name. He thinks it's something like 'Jerusalem' but, to be honest, he doesn't care.

(Hasn't cared about much lately.)

"Is it true that you two are dating?" The Jewish kid's voice is muffled, his microphone held too close to his face. He thrusts it at them. Blinks owlishly at them from behind his glasses.

Tina glares at him. Mike knows she's going to react and braces himself for impact.

(He wonders if she thought to put in her vampire teeth. He just wants to hear the kid squeal.)

"That's kind of racist. Just because we're Asian. Honestly."

Mike nods. Tries to look menacing and not like he's lying through his teeth.

The Jewish kid doesn't push it and he can feel his eyes following them down the hallway.

God, he hates that kid.

(What was his name again?)

Then he feels Tina reach for his hand and his heart stops.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" he hisses through his teeth. "His buddy has a _camera_! We're still within _earshot!_"

She laces her fingers into his and looks up at him through her eyelashes. Or, at least, he thinks she does. He's staring straight ahead and is _not_ looking at her, goddammit.

"Ashamed of me, Mikey?" Her voice is soft. Sweet like a baby tiger before it starts _attacking_ the _hell_ out of you.

Aw, shit.

"That's not what I meant, Tina, and you know it," he says, trying to keep his voice steady. Calm. He reminds himself that poking her in the eye for being such an _idiot_ would not do much for their newfound relationship. "It's just, y'know, couldn't you have waited? 'Til we'd gone round the corner or something?"

Tina does her woman's sigh. The one that means 'can't you see how stupid you are in comparison to me?'

"We can't just let people _assume_ that we're together, Mikey. That's racial stereotyping and I'm not having it."

"Yes but –" _there's no point calling people racist because of an assumption and then proving that assumption. Right. Before. Their. Eyes._ Mike shakes his head and closes his eyes, pasting a smile on his face. "Sorry. You're right."

(Avoid confrontation at all costs.)

Tina stands on tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek. He finally looks down at her and she's smiling, tucking her highlighted hair behind her ears. She actually looks sweet, brown eyes all soft because he accepted her _in public_ which she has been worrying about silently ever since they got together.

(She hasn't mentioned it, per se. He just knows.)

A brief wave of affection washes over him. Someone wants _his_ approval. It's kind of empowering.

The dimples in her cheek deepen as her grin widens.

"You'll walk me to class, right?"

That affection he mentioned? False alarm.

He has Spanish on the other side of the building and she knows it, but she still wants him to walk her to Algebra, which she has been moaning about all morning.

And it's on the _opposite side_ of the _fucking building_ and she _fucking_ _knows_ it.

And they have _five minutes._

But she's still smiling up at him, as innocent as can be, and he can see the steely glint behind her eyes that tells him to do as she asks or regret the hell out of it later.

Does he really have a choice?

* * *

><p>"So, we're here," he says breezily, trying not to look like he's backing away as fast as possible. He motions behind him in the vague direction of Spanish. "I'll just be off, then, if that's alright –"<p>

Oh no, she's pouting. She's _noticed_.

_What, _he wants to scream._ What IS it?_

"No kiss then, Mikey?"

(Stop calling him Mikey.)

"Sorry," he says instead. "What kind of boyfriend am I?" He even does a little 'what am I like' laugh and eye-roll. He is so good at this acting thing.

(Wishes he didn't have to be.)

He jogs forward, easy smile glued to his face, and presses a kiss to her mouth, meaning to draw away immediately and start sprinting to Spanish.

Tina has other ideas. She grabs the back of his neck and deepens the kiss, tugging at his bottom lip with her teeth.

Whoa.

Slow down, tiger. Seriously. Not in the mood right now.

He stiffens and Tina notices. Pulls back. Looks at him with something akin to hurt in her eyes. He smiles weakly and gestures at his watch.

"No time. Gotta run." He kisses her forehead and her eyelids flutter closed. Blocking the hurt from his view.

(He hates it when it's his fault.)

(Avoid confrontation at all costs, remember?)

He starts backing up, waving. Tina waves back, then enters the classroom, a burst of noise swelling and then fading as the door swings to a close.

Then, to Mike's vast joy and amusement, the late bell rings.

_Holy mother of –_

(He knows it's not Tina's fault she's so insecure.)

(It's just not so endearing when he has somewhere to be that's not in her vicinity.)

There's next to no one in the corridors. It's the first day of school and no one wants to start accumulating tardy slips that they could use when they actually need them (i.e. when they have massive hangovers). Only serious burnouts need slips on their first day.

Mike is by no means a burnout.

He's never been late for class once in his entire life, for crying out loud.

So he starts to run.

Really goddamn fast.

But God has decided that ever since Mattgate, (which he's not going to think about. He isn't.) things that he wants, needs, to happen, don't.

Can't.

Because, as he rounds the corner, running as fast as his long legs can carry him, which is pretty damn fast, someone gets in the way.

And, seeing as he aced that physics test, he knows very well what happens to people when they hit things at high velocity.

It doesn't end well for either of them.

He smashes into the side of some guy who decided that now would be a fantastic time to leave the men's restroom. The guy careers off his arm and smacks into the wall, dropping the books he was holding. His dreads hit Mike in the face as Mike trips, running bent double in an attempt to keep his balance.

He fails and tumbles to the floor. Pain jolts up his arms at the impact.

Well, _fuck_.

He lies there for a second, pulse racing. His breath is so loud in his ears he can barely hear himself think. Everything smarts, from the palms of his hands to that deep, dark place in his mind that won't stop telling him he screwed everything up.

From this morning to yesterday evening to the kiss at Asian Camp that never should've happened to the words that turned Matt away, made his eyes go blank and –

He's not going there. He isn't.

"You ok?"

The voice comes from above him. Wincing, he pushes himself up, straightens his shirt and is met by the gaze of a boy – young man, even – with dreads and piercings and a seriously unimpressed look on his face.

(And the most terrifyingly beautiful eyes he has ever seen on a human being.)

(What was that about 'not going there'?)

Mike tries to surreptitiously look at his watch and almost groans. He has never been this late in his entire life. Hell, he was even born exactly on time.

The other boy is still watching him.

(Stop looking at him.)

Mike sighs, running a hand through his hair. Averts his gaze. "Yeah. S'not your fault."

The guy nods, still watching him.

Mike can feel something rising in his stomach and he wants to run. Run to class to avoid being killed by angry relatives.

(Run to get away from something even worse.)

Avoid con – well, you get the picture.

Then he looks at the mess he's caused, textbooks strewn all across the hall. He knows he can't just crash into some guy, slam him into a wall and leave him to pick up the pieces.

(Though he wishes he could.)

So he starts picking up textbooks.

Resigns himself to the fact that everyone in his close family is going to murder him. In his bed. With spoons and toothpicks.

The guy is _still _watching him and it's starting to make him sweat.

He spots some loose papers on the other side of the hall and goes to fetch them, grateful for the fact that the guy isn't asking questions.

When he comes back, Dreads is still looking at him. He's leaning against the wall, arms folded. He looks like silence.

(But he can't be, because silence is safe.)

Then he speaks and Mike almost drops the books in his hands.

"You're not going to ask why I'm carrying a load of books with me to the bathroom."

A statement. Not a question.

Mike shrugs, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. Hides his eyes.

"I dunno. You have dreads and piercings. I'm not about to ask questions."

Then he freezes. Feels the flush wash over his cheeks. He hasn't been this honest since he was five and he asked his diabetic aunt why she was so fat.

Dreads stares at him for a moment. Then the corner of his mouth lifts up and, shaking his head, he takes the papers from him.

"Samuel Larson," he says, still watching him with silent eyes, "transfer student from California."

Mike nods, inwardly sighing with relief.

"Mike Chang. Been here for a while." He resists the sudden urge to bow theatrically.

What is wrong with him today?

Samuel (Sam?) nods at him and they watch each other for a moment. Mike's heart is still pounding from his sprint.

(At least, he hopes that's why it's pounding.)

"Sorry," Mike mutters finally, scuffing the floor with the toe of his Docs. "Y'know, about the human cannonball thing."

Dreads waves him off, almost dropping his books in the process. "No harm done. Think I should probably head to class now, though."

"'Kay. See you around."

Mike manages maybe five paces before he realizes Dreads is walking next to him, heading in the same direction. He looks over at him and spots a flash of amusement in his eyes before Samuel turns to face the direction in which they are going.

"Well," he says finally. "This is awkward."

Mike shakes his head disbelievingly, blood once more staining his cheeks. "Tell me about it."

"Spanish, first period?"

"Yup."

They've reached the red door of the class and Mike can see Mr. Schuester through the pane of glass. He's sitting on his desk, gesticulating wildly, face lit up.

Mike takes a deep breath. _Relax, Mike. Mr. Schue is not your dad and he will not murder you with spoons and toothpicks._ He can feel Samuel watching him and his skin prickles, feeling heavier where his gaze touches his skin. His hand hovers over the doorknob, almost afraid to touch it. Steeling himself, he pushes down, the slight squeak of the hinges sounding like Death himself.

Well. Death's mice, at least.

"After you," he mutters to Samuel, taking the coward's way out.

"Traitor," Samuel whispers. That said, he steps over the threshold like he couldn't care less, so Mike probably doesn't have to fear for his life.

Yet.

(Oh God, why does he have to have eyes like that?)


	2. A Close Call

**A Close Call**

* * *

><p><em>...We need a keepsake from this perfectly imperfect scene...<em>

* * *

><p>"What time do you call this, Mr. Chang?"<p>

Great. Absolutely fucking brilliant.

Mr. Schue looks at him, animated expression hardening.

(Don't make him feel worse than he already does.)

He can see the words forming behind his eyes and holds his breath. Counts down in his head.

3…2…1…

"Honestly, I expected more from you."

Bingo.

(Story of his life.)

(Gets him every time.)

"Before you sit down, I want you to tell me exactly why you're so late. And don't tell me you overslept."

He's just doing his job, Mike tells himself. _Just doing his job_.

(It's not enough.)

"Well, I –"

"In the language of this class, please," Mr. Schue says, switching seamlessly into Spanish.

It takes Mike a moment to understand.

What, does Mr. Schue think he can still speak Spanish after the summer? There is no. Fucking. Way.

(He was too busy being tutored in Things That Matter.)

Samuel fidgets next to him, papers rustling as he balances them in his hands. Mike briefly wonders why he isn't being subjected to the same torture.

Looking down at his shoes, Mike mumbles something along the lines of "I tripped and fell." Leaves out the part where he crashes into the guy with _eyes that_...

Well.

Mr. Schue looks at him disappointedly.

What _is _it with these people and their expectations? Would it kill them to just let him get on with his life for once?

"Take the seat behind Mr. Harrison," Mr. Schue says finally, still watching him, forehead creased.

Mike glances at Samuel, still standing near the door. He nods back almost imperceptibly, the only inclination of movement a faint rustle of dreads.

His face is impassive. Closed off.

(Mike suddenly wants to set him on fire. Just to see if he'd get a reaction.)

Mr. Schue seems to have gotten over his shattered expectations and is smiling. It's too bright. He gets up from the desk and surveys the class.

"Now, as you can see, we have a new student, transferred all the way from California. Why don't you come to the front and introduce yourself?"

Samuel hesitates slightly before walking to the front. Hugs the books loosely to his chest.

"I'm Samuel Larsen." He faces the class head on. Doesn't look at his feet once.

Mike wishes he had that sort of courage.

(Wishes he had a lot of things.)

"I'm from Los Angeles, California." A shift in the classroom. Even Mr. Schue looks impressed.

Los Angeles. Home of fame and fortune, sparkling lights and gleaming white teeth.

Everything Lima isn't.

Samuel doesn't seem to notice the interest. He catches Mike's eye for less than a heartbeat, dark and glittering and full of something Mike can't interpret.

It scares the _shit _out of him.

He can always rely on knowing what people are thinking. That's his _thing._

His safety. His fallback.

(His way out.)

Where did this kid _come _from?

A moment's awkward silence. Then -

"Thank you, Mr. Larsen," Mr. Schue says, coughing slightly. Clearly Samuel doesn't have anything more to say on the matter and Mr. Schue isn't one to push.

(Except when he does and then you crack and fall off and shatter into a million pieces on the floor.)

(Mike didn't know what rock-bottom meant before Glee.)

Samuel takes the seat in diagonally across from him, dropping his books on the desk with a _thump_. Gives Mike a good view of the back of his head. Which Mike is definitely _not _looking at.

No. He's busy paying attention to Mr. Schue and in a minute he'll start taking notes because this is obviously important and maybe later he'll ask if there's anything he can do for extra credit –

Oh, _fuck_. Why is everybody staring at him?

Ah. Yes. Mr. Schue just asked him a question.

He totally knew that.

"What?" Mike says intelligently. Mr. Schue just sighs and picks a kid in a red plaid shirt who starts conjugating 'trabajar' into different tenses.

Or it could be a shopping list.

Mike doesn't care either way.

He puts on his listening face and switches off.

(Hopes Mr. Schue doesn't ask him any more questions.)

* * *

><p>"Mike. A word, please."<p>

Mike winces.

(Because it's never just a word, is it?)

He nods briefly at Mr. Schue in acknowledgment, still clearing up his desk. He watches the flow of students streaming into the hallway and fights back the overwhelming urge to vault over the desks and join them.

Be a face amongst many. Camouflaged.

Hidden in plain sight.

Then he looks at Samuel, head bent over his notebook, still copying out the notes on the board. Remembers the set of his jaw in front of a room full of strangers.

Mike sighs and makes his way to the front.

(Doesn't bump into Samuel on his way past.)

(It's a close call, though.)

Mr. Schuester is leaning over his desk, sleeves rolled up, forearms bared. Like James Bond gearing up for a fight, suave and only slightly rumpled.

It's his eyes that give the game away.

(Tired and despairing and maybe a little bit lonely.)

"Look. Mike. I'm not about to start the Spanish Inquisition. I can ask, but in the end, you're either here on time or you're not."

What _happened _to him over the summer?

Where did the light go?

"And you weren't."

Mike stares at his shoes and wills the conversation to be over. He can hear Samuel behind him, pushing his chair back on his way out.

He suddenly wants to call out, to tell him to wait for him.

But Samuel is not his friend. Probably better if he never is.

Because look at Matt. Look at how well that turned out.

With Mike here alone in an almost empty classroom with no one to _wait_ for him, goddammit.

"…parents don't need to be informed _this_ time, Mike, but I'm going to have to ask you to stay behind after Glee Club tomorrow. I can't let tardiness go unpunished and I'm sorry, but it's the same for every student and I can't even make exceptions for people like you. Wish I could, but that's not how it works here at McKinley. I was thinking about going through some choreography with you anyway…"

Parents. Don't. Need. To. Be. Informed.

(He can _breathe _again.)

If there is a God, Mike is totally sacrificing something in his name this evening.

Fuck. _Yes_.

He resists the urge to do a little victory dance and nods at Mr. Schue solemnly instead.

"I know. I understand, sir."

Mr. Schue passes a hand over his face, smiling slightly. "Hey, don't call me sir, Mike. Makes me feel old."

Mike slings his bag over his shoulder.

"See you later, Mr. Schue."

If he replies, Mike doesn't notice. His head is too full, the triumphant roaring in his ears blocking out anything and everything from the outside.

Take _that_, Grim Reaper.

If Mike could sing, he so would.

This lack of concentration would also probably explain why he doesn't notice Samuel loitering right outside the door.

He doesn't crash into him this time, but it's a close thing.

(Guy is a _magnet._ A _Mike_ magnet.)

(He does not want to think about the implications of _that_ right now.)

Anyway, who loiters anymore?

"What the –"

Then he looks at Samuel's face, properly looks, and his head is tilted to the side, eyes dark and contemplating and _shit,_ he'll be damned if he can remember his own name.

Because when was the last time anyone looked at him like that?

(He looks away quickly.)

"You're in Glee Club."

A statement, _not a fucking question._

"Apparently so."

Mike refuses to look him in the eyes.

(It's like looking into the sun. You shouldn't, you know you shouldn't, but it's blindingly bright and impossible to avoid and it leaves an imprint behind your eyes for longer than it has any right to.)

Samuel nods, dreads rustling.

"Is it worth it?"

Mike's head snaps up, meeting Samuel's gaze full on.

He was not expecting that.

(Makes him want to run and keep running because it's _too much_, it's all too much.)

But Samuel's eyes must have a direct connection to the speech centre in his brain because he can't stop the words that fall out of his mouth.

"It's hard. It means being looked down on by people that used to look right through you and never knowing if the slushie in the hands of some dude in a Letterman jacket is for you." Mike runs a hand through his hair. "But yeah, it's worth it."

The corner of Samuel's lip quirks and Mike _does not _notice the way his nose crinkles, piercing flashing. Samuel starts walking backwards, books still held loosely against his chest.

"Was thinking about giving it a shot. See you 'round, Mike."

Then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd.

Well.

If that doesn't leave Mike feeling like he's just been hit in the face with a frying pan.

(His heart is beating like it wants to wear away at his ribcage.)

That's more that he's ever admitted to any stranger.

Hell, that's more that he's ever admitted to anyone.

(This guy is dangerous. Fire-spitting, alarm-bells-ringing dangerous.)

But then the warning bell rings and that is a lot more dangerous than any pair of eyes can ever be.

(He hopes.)

(Oh God, the way he said his _name_.)

* * *

><p>Well, the good news is he doesn't have another tardy slip to soil his almost unblemished record.<p>

The bad news is that his Calculus teacher is a complete _bastard_.

He bolts in the door just as the late bell rings and wheezes out a brief "Sorry," frantically scanning the room for a friendly face.

Nope.

Just a middle-aged man with a tattered old jacket and a bad comb-over.

Who is not looking that friendly right now.

"So nice of you to join us, Mr…?" He tails off, raising an eyebrow in what he thinks is an imperious manner.

It just makes his chins wobble.

"Chang," Mike manages, making his way across the room to one of the many free desks.

"Mr. Chang." He smirks. Mike can see the Asian jokes whirring around in his brain and wants to start banging his head on the table.

He doesn't. Obviously.

But it's a close call.

"Well, seeing as we're complete…" He spins around, surprisingly agile for a man his size, and starts scrawling something on the board in harsh capitals. He pauses for a second, then underlines it twice.

"I am Mr. Makin," he barks, rapping the board with his knuckles. "But you can call me 'sir'."

And so the torture begins.

Mr. Makin is an absolute tyrant, with a penchant for throwing sharpened chalk at people who aren't taking notes enthusiastically enough.

His method of teaching (if you can call it that) seems to be writing complicated formulae on the board and then frightening them into answering.

Mike thinks he might have been a bit early on the 'not dying' thing.

Because chalk hurts like hell.

And he feels like he's being mentally _raped._

(He doesn't want to know all this stuff.)

But he needs this class, he needs it to be able to get into Advanced Math next year.

So he grins and bears it like a man.

By the end of the class, the girl next to him has almost reached breaking point. She's hunched in on herself, shoulders clenched in an effort to hold back the tears that are threatening to burst out.

The bell rings and everyone's on their feet, quick as a whip, trying to avoid the lash of his tongue. Mr. Makin is shouting assignments at them, but Mike doesn't care, just wants to _get out_.

A small choking noise to his right.

Then Vesuvius erupts.

Mike is halfway out the door, already breathing in the freedomwhenEmotional Girl slams into him. Hard.

His head hits the corner with a sickening thud.

(Pain, so much fucking pain.)

The girl's sobs disappear almost immediately into the milling crowd, but Mike's pain remains.

Fucking emotional _girls._

(Would it be OK to cry? Just this once?)

(His father isn't around to see it, right?)

A quick glance back into the classroom shows the teacher watching him with indifference.

Wait, did he say indifference? He meant pure, unadulterated glee.

And not the singing kind.

"Mikey!"

Oh, fuck no.

He smiles. It feels so very false. "Hey, Tina. How was Algebra?"

She rolls her eyes. "The teacher's a bitch, I _told_ you. But that's not important right now!" She reaches up and pushes his hair back from his forehead. Winces.

"Oh, Mikey, look at that horrible red mark. That _whore._" She shudders violently.

(Fucking _girls_ and their tendency to hate each other _for no reason_.)

"She's not –"

Tina shakes her head impatiently. "I don't care. She rammed you into a door for no reason – "

"The teacher –"

"Be _quiet_, Mikey. I saw the whole thing. She rammed you into the door and then just ran off! Honestly, thank God I was around!" She looks at his forehead and winces again.

Brilliant. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

What? He could've dealt with it by himself just _fine_, thank you very much.

Pain, _so much fucking pain_.

"…going to the bathroom to get some wet towels to soothe it, 'kay? Just wait here for me."

To channel Ron Weasley: bloody _hell._

"I don't think –"

"Nonsense. I'll be back in a second."

And so Mike finds himself standing outside the girl's bathroom with a huge red welt on his forehead and what feels like a swarm of bees in his head, being jeered at by jocks and gawked at by everyone else.

Matt. He misses Matt.

(Though he shouldn't. Shouldn't let himself.)

Finally, the door opens and Tina emerges with a wad of paper towels, humming something that sounds suspiciously like 'God Only Knows' by The Beach Boys.

The humming stops with a squeak as she stumbles to a halt. She stares up at him in horror.

"What?" _What the FUCK is wrong now?_

Then he realizes his blood is dripping into his left eye. He prods his forehead tentatively and curses at the giant lump he can feel growing there.

"Oh Mikey!"

(Stop calling him MIKEY.)

"I…" he starts.

(Mike has never been good with blood.)

(Today is not an exception.)

"I… think I… I should probably go to the nurse's office."

* * *

><p>The thing Mike often forgets is that life is good.<p>

Not brilliant. Not fantastic. Not amazing.

Just good.

And, sat alone in the nurse's office, bleeding into a paper towel with his head between his knees, he imagines how it could be worse.

He could be concussed.

He could have fallen unconscious.

Mr. Schue could have called his dad.

The nurse could be out of town and not just on a coffee break.

(Though, to be honest, in the amount of time she needs to drink _one measly cup of coffee_, he could probably disprove Einstein's Theory of Relativity and still have time to think up new choreography for the Glee Club.)

But he's not thinking about that. He's taking deep breaths and ignoring the ringing in his ears and being grateful for the fact that he's not in the middle of a war zone. Or something equally horrific, like a Justin Bieber concert.

The door opens. Mike keeps his head in his hands and prays the nurse's voice isn't shrill enough to hurt his brain.

"Did you human cannonball into something else?" Samuel says, sounding amused.

Oh, _hell_ no.


	3. Please, Please, Please  Part I

**Please, Please, Please - Part I**

* * *

><p>…<em><strong>so please, please, please let me get what I want this time…<strong>_

* * *

><p><em>The door opens. Mike keeps his head in his hands and prays the nurse's voice isn't shrill enough to hurt his brain.<em>

"_Did you human cannonball into something else?" Samuel says, sounding amused._

_Oh, hell no._

* * *

><p>Mike doesn't believe in Fate.<p>

(Because when has Fate ever been on his side?)

Science is trial and error, right? Trial and error and the hope that someday, somehow, someone will get it right.

Fate implies that the end result is _known_, sitting there, waiting for the right person to stumble across it. Uncover it. That someone else is sitting in some big screening room, watching, waiting for _that_ moment, the cry of "Eureka!"

Mike doesn't buy it.

And, well, look at the _evidence._ The _theories. _The Big Bang, Charles Darwin, all too random and complex to be made up by some all-knowing being called _Fate_.

When everything collided and created _imperfection._

(Was perfection not an option? Was it too much to ask?)

But, fuck, if Fate exists, this is it.

Mike lifts his head, keeping the towels pressed against his forehead, and stares at Samuel's shoes. Scuffed and worn and really, it's a wonder they don't fall off his feet.

"I was a human cannonball-ee, actually," he mumbles. "But the door didn't really sympathize."

Samuel laughs. It doesn't really do much for the ringing in Mike's ears, but he doesn't mind.

(He should. He really, really should.)

"Well, from the amount of blood in those paper towels, I would say you caught the door in a pretty bad mood."

Mike smiles weakly.

(Don't mention the blood. Please stop talking about the blood.)

"Probably."

Oh God, now he can _smell_ the blood. It's bitter and metallic but somehow sweet enough to make its way down the back of his throat. He wants to retch. Get rid of the taste of it all.

(Get rid of those overwhelming expectations that have been weighing him down all day.)

"What're you here for, anyway?" Mike asks. His voice is a lot further away than he's used to, all trembling and trying so, so hard not to be.

"The nurse needs to go over my health records. Y'know, like allergies and vaccinations and stuff."

A brief rustle of paper. It's the same frequency as the buzzing in his brain and he bites back a groan. Concentrates on breathing.

(In. Out.)

His heart is disturbing his rhythm. It pounds disjointedly, swelling up in his chest and it's not _fair_, this guy can't have this much power over him just by being in the same _room_.

He feels like he's running. Like he's been running for a long time and he can't remember if he's leaving something behind or if he's running towards it. _This_ is why Tina's good for him. Her path may be difficult to follow, but at least she knows where they're going. At least she can point the way.

(At least other people have been down it before.)

(_In. Out._)

Then Samuel sits down next to him with a _whoosh_ of warm air and school soap and Mike nearly jumps out of his skin.

(Smell of blood completely forgotten.)

"_Jesus Christ._ Do you _have _to sneak around like some sort of…of…" Mike struggles for the right word "…Californian _ninja._"

(It's ok. As long as he doesn't look into Samuel's eyes, he's ok. He still has power over his speech.)

(Just about.)

Samuel laughs again, closer this time and Mike can feel the reverberations and, _shit_, this comes close to his _eyes_ in the Exercise Sadistic Power Over Mike department.

"I don't think we'd make very good ninjas, us Californians. We're too laid back. We'd be all 'well, we could kill this dude with our badass ninja death stars, but it's like, way too hot and I want to go surfing.'"

So many _words_ coming out of his mouth that Mike can hardly concentrate. It takes him a while to process that it was actually kind of funny.

"Well, considering the fact that you used the words 'dude' and 'badass' in that sentence, you're probably right."

And, really, he's starting to wonder who took over his brain. Because he never makes fun of people he's only just met. Ever.

(Oh my God, he's _bantering._ Like _Kurt and Rachel_. The horror.)

Samuel hums his agreement.

(Stop making _noises_. There's this fragile thing called _self-control_ and it doesn't work if you keep _poking it_.)

"I'm pretty sure they're not called ninja death stars either."

"Shuriken, actually."

Mike wants to clamp his hand over his mouth. Ugh. He sounds like a know-it-all, a Rachel Berry with a love of really bad Jackie Chan movies.

(He's starting to feel like Eddie Murphy in the film where socially inept, inappropriate aliens take over his brain. In other words, Not Good.)

The ringing in his head has subsided a little, so he takes a breath and looks up. Nonchalantly. Definitely nonchalantly.

(Bad Idea. Notice the capitals. Danger of Bottomless Eyes.)

Samuel is looking at him, a small smile gracing the corner of his mouth, eyes deep and crinkled at the corners. It's not a mocking, not even close, but Samuel looks away before Mike can give it a name.

It's probably better that way.

(He doubts he'll ever find the bottom to his stomach again.)

No jokes about his knowledge of ninja weaponry. Not even the slightest whisper.

The net of embarrassment loosens. Tightens again in his throat and he's so glad he's not a talker, glad neither of them seems to be, because he doubts he would be able to say much at all.

His head doesn't feel as heavy now. It still hurts like a bitch but it's more superficial. Stinging rather than aching. Samuel leans back in his chair and starts crossing and uncrossing his ankles. His books shift in his lap with every movement and Mike suddenly fears that they'll have a repeat performance of this morning's accident.

(With everything strewn across the floor and something shattering inside Mike, something he's spent the entire summer rebuilding.)

Mike closes his eyes and tries to pretend he's alone.

Needless to say, he is completely and utterly unsuccessful.

* * *

><p>AN: I know it's short, but I wrote this in two parts - the second part should be up soon. I'm just waiting to get it back from my wonderful beta, <strong>WeAreTomorrow<strong>, who you definitely need to check out if you haven't already.

Anyway, sorry for the wait. Update soon, I promise. I _mean_ it.


	4. Please, Please, Please  Part II

**Please, Please, Please - Part II**

Dedicated to my name twin and my polar opposite. Because no one deserves to have a mother like this.

* * *

><p>…<em><strong>Lord knows, it would be the first time…<strong>_

* * *

><p>Home is where the heart is.<p>

Apparently.

He pushes the door closed. Lets it slam. It echoes throughout the house. Somewhere, in another room, something rattles.

"I'm home!"

(He's not. Home's just the name you give to the place that has to take you in when you turn up at the doorstep.)

His voice bounces back at him.

Having a big house just makes you feel lonely. He likes it that way.

Because loneliness leaves you to your own devices.

A muffled voice comes from somewhere indefinable. "I'll be down in a second!"

The tone is female, gravelly from all the smoking she did in her twenties. The smoking she swears she doesn't do anymore, although Mike doubts the deer left the cigarette butts under the porch.

Hello, mom.

He toes off his boots and carefully puts them in the shoe cabinet. His black Docs look gigantic next to his mom's collection of smart leather pumps she wears to work. He remembers the time he thought being tall meant coming up to his mom's shoulder.

When being happy meant being like his parents.

He walks down the corridor to his room. When they moved, he chose the room on the ground floor, because he couldn't face the thought of running into his parents in the morning.

Sometimes his mom used to ask him what he dreamt about. He got tired of lying.

Also, this room has enough floor space to dance around comfortably.

And a carpet that swallows the sounds of moving feet.

Tossing his schoolbag onto the bed, he walks over to the mirror over his chest of drawers and inspects the damage.

There is absolutely no way his mom won't notice.

The closer to the wound on his forehead, the redder the skin. Invisible to the human eye, (but so, so there) is a bruise that is going to go all the colors of the rainbow over the next week. The nurse, when she finally returned from her coffee break and was convinced by Samuel that although she'd been expecting _him_ and not Mike, Mike's case was more important than a bunch of paperwork, had taped up his forehead with an array of Steri-Strips and white gauze.

Mike doesn't remember exactly what happened. He was far too distracted by the silent weight of a heated gaze.

He sits down heavily on the bed, conscious of his brain rattling around in his skull. One of the guys from football gave him a lift home and clapped him hard on the shoulder by way of farewell, disturbing the careful balance between buzzing and downright _aching_.

'Having a bee in your bonnet' should definitely refer to this.

But he's _fine._ He is. Because in a moment, his mom is going to come down those stairs, dressed like she's going to the office because she likes to feel professional even when she's working at home, and he _has_ to be fine.

His mom doesn't care much about the bruises on his forehead. She cares about how much the bruises are going to affect his admission to Yale or Harvard or whichever Ivy League college she wants him to go to this week.

And it's ok. It is. It's her way of loving him.

It's just hidden beneath layers of expectations and confrontations that need to be avoided at all costs.

Footsteps on the stairs. It begins.

"Michael! Where are you?"

"My room." No point putting it off. He wants this over and done with as soon as possible.

The heels of her indoor pumps drum a tattoo on the wooden floor of the hallway.

She explained to him once that a woman always needs to practice walking in heels. She said heels were an essential part of life and a woman who could walk comfortably in nine inches of spiky leather was admirable.

He'd silently shown her the pictures that Mr. Jarvis, his seventh grade biology teacher, had shown him. X-rays of a woman's foot after years of walking around in high heels. Bent out of shape and anything but essential and admirable.

She told him not to backtalk and took away his dinner before he'd finished eating, because impertinent boys obviously don't deserve the food their mother had so painstakingly prepared for them.

He didn't point out that it was pizza and that she only remembered she'd put it in the oven after the smoke alarm went off.

He'd realized at an early age that it just wasn't worth it.

The slight squeak of the doorknob being turned.

And then she's there. In all her mid-afternoon glory, the creases in her pant suit only slightly flattened. He can smell the perfume his father got her for Christmas, which means that there a more cigarette butts in the bushes by the porch.

Her kohl-rimmed eyes narrow. Oh shit.

"What happened to your forehead?"

Hi, mom. Nice to see you, mom. How has your day been, mom.

He wasn't expecting any niceties.

But is a 'hello' too much to ask for?

Be nice to your children, someone once said, because they're the ones that will choose your nursing home.

"I hit a door."

She looks at him, eyes cold. "You weren't fighting, I hope?"

_Holy mother of– _

"I don't _fight_, mom. Someone just barged into me when I was leaving the classroom. It was an accident."

"I don't believe you."

He should have seen that one coming. He remains silent, waits for the reasons that are sure to follow.

"A door doesn't break the skin, Michael. Either you're lying to me about how you did it, or you lied to whoever's responsible for first aid at that high school of yours. Lord knows, they're incompetent enough to tape up a bruise."

Mike would like to say that she's having a bad day, but she isn't. She's like this all the time.

He stands up, hiding the movement with an imaginary need to stretch. He half-hopes that his height will give him some sort of advantage, but he already knows it's futile. Her small frame has never held her back before – why should it now?

"Well?"

Mike sighs, slouches, puts his hands in his pockets. He's careful to hide his frustration.

"I was barged into a door by a girl who was in a hurry to leave Calculus. My forehead hit the corner and the wood splintered, which caused some painful, but still superficial, wounds. That's the _truth_."

He almost sounds like he's asking. Because, at least in this household, only she gets to decide what is fact and what is fiction.

She sniffs and crosses her arms. "If you're sticking to that story, fine. I don't care. Just make sure it doesn't get in the way of your homework. We noticed that some of your marks last semester were less than satisfactory."

Meaning too close to an A-.

He hates it when she comes out with the 'we' bullshit. It's designed to make him feel like they're conspiring against him.

But he watched 'Duplicity' and as far as conspiracies go, their road is a long one.

He nods and smiles, cheeks pulled by invisible hands, cold and clammy.

He feels like the guy in France whose face was shocked into a grotesque grin using electric impulses for the sake of psychological experiments. He suspects his expression is similar.

"I know. I'll try harder this year." Empty promises. Knee-jerk reactions. It's all the same.

"Good," she says in a voice that implies it's anything but. He waits for her to leave, but she stays in the doorway, still watching him.

(Being watched. It seems familiar. But this time it's the cold glare of someone he knows too well. Not the searing trail of a stranger's gaze.)

_Can I help you?_

"You have your little singing club thing tomorrow, right?"

Ah. Belittlement. A favorite method of hers.

"Yes, I have Glee tomorrow. It's going to run over by about a quarter of an hour, Mr. Schue said something about catching up after the break."

He prays she doesn't notice the lie.

"The cheek of that man. I suppose you're happy that your choir master is a slave driver. He barely takes academic studies into account and what do you get out of it? A non-place at Sectionals or Regionals or whatever it was."

Regionals. But she doesn't care, does she.

Mike grunts noncommittally and hopes she interprets it in his favour.

She tilts her head, a gesture that usually indicates curiosity, but in her case tries to enforce insecurity. He stands there, shifting his weight uncomfortably and waits for her to break the silence, to explain what she wants.

"Do pull your trousers up, Michael. I really don't need to see your underwear."

Then she's gone, heels clacking. Echoing in the house that's too big for three people but too small for them.

He waits a moment, then shuts the door quietly and lets out a breath that he was barely conscious of holding.

(He's so _tired._)

He throws himself onto his bed, schoolbag digging uncomfortably into the small of his back. His head is back to throbbing, swirling with thoughts and uncertainties and _is he sure it was bleeding? _He can't remember anymore.

This is what happens when his mom interferes.

"_Well, from the amount of blood in those paper towels, I would say you caught the door in a pretty bad mood."_

He shouldn't let people get into his head. He should have had enough practice in blocking out his mom by now.

And as for Samuel…

"_Is it worth it?"_

A flare in his stomach at the memory. A stranger, walking backwards to be swallowed by unfamiliar faces, Mike's name the last on his tongue.

Is it worth it indeed.

(Think of Tina. His _girlfriend._)

Oh fuck, Tina. He hasn't seen her since the Waiting Outside the Bathroom Incident, but he's going to see her bright and early tomorrow morning when he-

Picks her up. Huh.

He remembers waving goodbye to his car in his mind as he left the parking lot. Get a lift home, the nurse said. It's not safe for you to drive with any sort of head injury.

_Shit._

Looks like it's going to be a bus day for him tomorrow.

He lifts his phone out of his pocket. Tina's number is the first to come up under 'Received Calls.' She called him last night _just to make sure_ he was going to pick her up and _could he still remember her address, look, it's just two blocks away from the Rutherford's old place, just turn right after Matt's house_ and how _Algebra is a dumbass subject to have so early in the morning _and _who gets to write the timetables anyway, huh?_

She talks a lot.

But she only ever says one thing.

"_You'll be there, Mike, right?"_

And that's the thing.

He always is.

She picks up after the third ring.

"Mikey, oh my God, are you okay?"

(Tina is a lot of things. But at least she _asks._)

"I'm fine. Look, I left –"

"Are you sure? 'Cause that was a helluva lot of blood coming out of your head. I mean, for a minute a thought you were an extra from one of those, like, _zombie _movies my brother likes so much. All pale and bleeding and stuff."

Again, _stop_ with the blood talk.

"I'm _fine_. _Really_. I was just calling to say that I left my car at school and I can't pick you up tomorrow, is all."

He thinks she answers. He catches snippets of sentences like 'Kurt' and 'car big enough for the entire school' and 'look after yourself, Mikey, we've got Glee tomorrow.' Tries to pay attention, he does, but it's _so hard_, what with the rave in his brain and his heavy eyelids and the rather weighty fact that he _just doesn't give a shit_.

(Did he mention pain, so much _fucking pain?_)

He leans back on his bed and watches the sunlight dancing on the ceiling. If he _tries, _if he concentrates _really hard_, he can lower the pitch of her voice, make her giggles strike the chord in his chest that their tone just can't reach.

If he _tries._

(He wonders how long trying is going to be enough.)

* * *

><p>AN: Coming soon: Glee Club. And slightly less angst, because I'm starting to feel very sorry for Mike. But only slightly less, mind.<p>

We're a long way away from sunshine and rainbows.


	5. First and Last

**First and Last **

* * *

><p><em>...I've been secretly falling apart, unseen...<em>

* * *

><p>With a feeling of sinking despair, Mike finds himself in a rush for the bus. Fucking hell.<p>

(Will someone give him a break? It's not _funny._)

It's like someone took Old Mike and pushed him off a cliff without telling him.

And, well, it's really not fair. Because he would at least like to_ know_ if his life is going to be changed irreversibly.

He imagines Tina, sitting in that Monster Truck of Kurt's, laughing and discussing Fashion Week (because every week seems to be Fashion Week) and celebrity breakups and, heaven forbid, _musicals_ and not for _one second_ thinking of giving him a lift.

Mike admits that, yes, he may have had to have pulled his ears off out of sheer disgust if he was stuck in a tiny box with them, but at least he wouldn't have been late.

Did he mention that he's never late? Because he isn't. Well, yesterday he was, but yesterday was an accident, caused by other people and their stupid, _stupid_ eyes.

Which _didn't _keep him awake last night. They didn't.

(They might have.)

And now he's walking (read: running like fucking Roadrunner) to the bus stop, hyperventilating slightly because he _can't _be late, it's not allowed and he needs to get on that bus, like, _now_, but now is already happening and shit, who invented time anyway?

He misses Old Mike. Old Mike had everything under control and was never late for anything and had a best friend who was just that, a best friend, and who _got by_ because he didn't know how to do anything else.

(Old Mike never fell into stranger's eyes.)

A car horn beeps at him from behind, startling him out of his reverie. He's slowed down without realising. Sighing, Mike picks up the pace and reflects on his failure to multi-task.

What? Thinking and running is _hard._

You should try it sometime.

The car beeps again and Mike looks over his shoulder, annoyed. He can't make out the driver, but it's a beat up blue _something _that somehow inexplicably reminds him of worn out shoes. He scowls in the general direction of the driver.

He's trying to _angst_ here, for God's sake. Stop _interrupting _him.

The car slows down as it levels with him, pulling into the sidewalk. Mike stops, bewildered.

(A deer in the headlights.)

Because this is the weirdest thing that's ever happened to him this early in the morning.

He doesn't have time to stare at cars, he really doesn't, but he's so confused and _tired_ and did he mention the Bad at Multi-Tasking thing? Because this car definitely counts as a Task, and walking to the bus stop is an entirely separate thing. Ergo, he can't move right now.

And then the window rolls down and he _definitely_ can't move right now.

"Do you need a ride?"

Stupid, _stupid _eyes being all stupid and so entirely beautiful it's just not fair.

Mike finds his tongue and tries to say something coherent.

"Huh?"

Yes, Mike. Way to go. Coherent is your fucking middle name.

"I _said_, do you need a ride?"

Samuel grins at him, arm resting on the open window. "I'm just asking 'cause you kinda look like you're in a rush and, well, bad things tend to happen when you go places at high speed."

Mike laughs shakily. Oh God oh God oh God. "True that. You got enough room?"

Ugh. He could kick himself. Stupid, stupid question.

Samuel just laughs. "My dreads don't take up that much space, dude. Get in."

Mike's legs obey before his brain has enough time to catch up. It's only when he slams the door shut behind him that he realizes he's in a _tiny box_ with _Samuel Larsen_.

A _tiny box._

With _Samuel Larsen_.

Stupid, _stupid_ legs, not letting him stay on the sidewalk where it's safe.

"Just put your bag on the floor, don't mind the CDs," Samuel says, eyes on the rear-view mirror, concentrating. Mike doesn't know why. There aren't ever any cars on this street.

Then his eyes fall onto the CDs.

Mike wonders how he managed not to notice them.

(Actually, he knows exactly why he didn't notice them.)

Some people have carpets in their cars. Samuel has CDs.

Mike puts his bag by his feet, trying to ignore the fact that his hand is trembling, and picks up one. Samuel glances at him and smirks slightly, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel.

Mike snorts despite himself. "Coldplay? Really?"

Samuel just keeps grinning, unfazed. "They have some good stuff."

"Yeah, if good means wailing about war in a really annoying falsetto. Seriously, dude."

"Hey, I happen to like them. You can't just come into my car and start dissing my music. There's such a thing as good manners, y'know."

He's ok. Samuel's still smiling.

(God, what it _does_ to him.)

"Oh, ok, I'm sorry." Mike clears his throat. "I mean, what a wonderful taste in music you have, sir. I can't fault it."

Samuel laughs. It's one of those laughs that comes right from his boots and Mike grins despite himself, heart beating fast.

"I'm guessing you don't really want to listen to that, then."

"How could you tell," Mike deadpans. He looks over at Samuel and their eyes meet, colours crashing into each other. His grin freezes as his heart misses a beat.

He can't breathe. He looks away.

(Such a fucking cliché.)

Samuel coughs, eyes back on the road in front of him.

"Your head still hurting?" Samuel asks finally. He's watching him in the rear-view mirror.

Mike's hand drifts up to his forehead, lightly brushing over the Steri-Strips. He got rid of the gauzy stuff after his shower when the tape came off, revealing a beautiful shiner of a bruise.

(Tina is going to have a field day.)

"Yeah, a bit."

He wants to say more but his brain is having a problem with words. Don't worry, he wants to say, it'll wear off. Just keep your eyes on the road and your laugh in your chest and everything will be just fine.

A blush rises in his cheeks as Samuel takes it in properly, eyes trailing over the purple and yellow and red that decorates his forehead. Gaze of fire and ice.

"No kidding. What did you do to make the door so angry?"

He's smiling again. The moment has passed. Mike breathes out.

Oxygen. How he missed you.

(He didn't.)

"Well, our Calculus teacher is a tyrant –"

"So he threw a door at you?"

Mike laughs. God, it feels good.

"_No_," he says, shaking his head, still grinning, "He terrified this girl so much she ran out of the room, crying, and sent an innocent bystander, i.e. me, flying. The door got in the way."

"Huh." They're about to enter the parking lot, indicator ticking away as Samuel checks for oncoming traffic. "My scenario was cooler. Admit it."

"I'm admitting nothing."

(So many different ways to interpret that sentence.)

When did this become so easy? How can he fucking click with a guy when these _feelings_ keep springing up all over the place, feelings that he swore would never happen again?

Samuel pulls into the nearest empty space, wrenching the handbrake violently. Mike raises an eyebrow.

"This car is a piece of shit," he says by way of explanation. Mike just nods. Something he knows all too well.

They both get out and Samuel locks it, slinging his bag over his shoulder. It looks new, and Mike wonders if he got tired carrying all those books around. He leaves himself a mental note to ask him why he was doing that in the first place.

"You need a lift home or are you good?"

"Nah, I left Car here yesterday, I can drive myself back."

Samuel stares at him, eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Wait, you call your car… Car?"

Mike smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. Yeah, it's stupid. He knows. "Probably why it never does what I want it to. Sheer disgust at its name."

Samuel is still watching him. It's starting to get familiar but it gets him _right there_ every time. Finally, a smile breaks out on his face and it's like the fucking sun rising in winter and now he's starting to sound like those poets who sit around and mope about love lost and just generally being fucking depressed.

"You're brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

And if that doesn't just make his day, his year, his _life_.

* * *

><p>Mike feels like the choir room is a time capsule.<p>

If he closes his eyes, he can imagine it's Matt sitting next to him and not -

"Mikey! Open your eyes, Mr. Schue's here!"

Sigh.

But he does what she says, because she's hissing and that shit's scary.

"Welcome back, New Directions!"

A few people cheer. Mike can see his grin echoed on everyone's faces. His stupid, goofy grin that makes his cheeks hurt and his eyes pull up at the corners so much he can barely see.

It feels so good to be back.

Tina grabs his hand and pulls it over her shoulder. His happy bubble deflates slightly.

Mr. Schue is as enthusiastic as ever, his newfound short temper hidden behind grins and clapping hands and deeper lines on his forehead. Mike's the only one that notices, so he lets it slide.

"I hope you all had a good summer!" He grins again and jeez, does no one else notice how over the top he is? "Hopefully you're all ready to start the new semester and kick some _ass_ at Sectionals."

"Damn straight!"

Puck. Ugh. Does he have to be such a typical jock? God, he's even doing all the fist pumping and stuff. Mike notes that he's still sporting a Mohican, despite everyone's attempts to convince him otherwise.

"Thank you, Puck, for your enthusiasm." Mr. Schue leans against the piano, elbows resting on the shiny black surface. "But if we really want to win this whole thing this year, we need to buck up our ideas and do it fast. Last year we hung on by the skin of our teeth, and we need to do so much _better _if we want this Glee Club to stick around. Sue was this close," he pinches his thumb and forefinger together, leaving a sliver of empty space between the two, "to getting rid of us. We can't allow that to happen again. So the assignments this year are going to be a whole lot tougher. Everyone ok with that?"

Murmured assent. Rachel stands up in front of him. "Mr. Schue, if I may –"

"Not now, Rachel. We have some serious work to do."

Rachel sits back down, affronted. She even _hmphs_.

Mr. Schue ignores her and walks over to the whiteboard. Mike wonders what happened to the blatant favouritism. He didn't mind it, it made sense for the group if she was there to carry them through, but he can see Quinn and Mercedes looking positively gleeful.

(And not the singing kind.)

"We're going to start out with one of the toughest ones."

The green marker squeaks as he scrawls across the board. He turns around, underlining it with a flourish, and Mike's heart sinks.

_Comfort Zones_.

"Comfort zones," Mr. Schue clarifies unnecessarily. "Who can tell me what I mean by that?"

Mike hates it when teachers ask that. You tell us, lazy ass. You're the only one with the right answer.

Rachel's hand shoots up, almost taking Mike's eye out. His own arm is starting to go numb, but he's scared to lift it off Tina's shoulders, because – well. She's fucking scary.

"Finn. What do you think?"

This is starting to get petty. Pick Rachel, for crying out loud. A simple answer can't destroy the team spirit.

Finn, as usual, stumbles for words, flushing red when they finally spill out.

"It's like, doing stuff we're not comfortable with or something, I dunno."

"Along those lines, yes. Anyone else have any ideas?"

Rachel's hand is almost touching the ceiling. Mike breathes a sigh of relief when Mr. Schue's eyes finally rest on her.

Disaster averted.

"Rachel?"

It's like a dam bursting. They all get caught in the aftermath.

"It's about stretching our boundaries and striving to be better at not just one thing, but everything. How can we succeed if we stick to doing what we know, what works? We have to stick our necks out and, and do something _different_, something unexpected. I, for one –"

"Thank you, Rachel. Couldn't have put it better myself."

People seem to have gotten replaced over the summer. Mike is going to have to contact Eddie Murphy and ask if his movie was based on a true story.

"It's about trying something new. It's about learning. Maybe you won't succeed, who knows. The fact is, nobody will, not unless they _try_."

Kurt raises his hand slowly. His face is the picture of scepticism.

"Yes?"

"So… What would this entail exactly? Because if it's anything like performing an assembly in our underwear, while that _may_ be out of our comfort zones, I'm not really sure how it would heighten our performance standards."

Mike watches in silent horror as Mr. Schue shrugs.

"If that's the only thing you don't feel comfortable doing, why not?"

911? Yeah, someone kidnapped our teacher and exchanged him for an evil sadist.

"But it's for everyone to decide for themselves. I'm not going to organize a huge assembly just so you can prance around in your underwear."

Oops. Sorry, emergency services. False alarm. But keep an eye on him just in case. He's still acting weird.

"What do you propose instead? Like, what should I do, for example?" Kurt is still not convinced. Mike wonders what happened with him and underwear to make him so paranoid.

Mr. Schue contemplates him for a moment.

"Well… You're most comfortable doing big productions, right? With lots of movement and big, long, high notes, preferably on a big stage?"

Kurt nods, head tilted to the side.

"Then I would tone it down. Wear a t-shirt and jeans, sit on a stool and just _sing_. It's amazing how powerful that is, and also how much more _power _you need to make those quiet songs work."

Kurt leans back in his chair, looking vaguely horrified. Mike suspects it has more to do with the t-shirt and jeans side of things than anything else.

"Most people in here can decide for themselves what they need to do. I'm trusting you all take this assignment very seriously. I don't want a half-hearted attempt at a song a couple of keys higher than you usually sing."

He fixes Puck with a penetrating stare. Puck looks slightly guilty.

"There are also a couple of people I'd like to assign things to."

Oh no. Mike knew this was coming.

"Finn and Mike. One a singer, one a dancer. Switch roles."

Finn turns to look at him. He looks like he's about to be sick. Mike suspects he looks similar.

(Please don't make him sing. He doesn't sing.)

Harmonizing in the background is all very well, but singing a solo?

Give him dinner with Tina and his parents any day.

_Fuck._

"You'll get two weeks to work on this assignment instead of one, seeing as it's that much harder. I'll give you the time we have left to come up with ideas for what you want to do."

He claps his hands and the room bursts into motion. Tina wriggles out from underneath his arm and starts talking, eyes wide.

"Oh my God, Mikey. This assignment!"

Yes, Tina. Thank you for your well-articulated opinion.

"I don't know what to do. It's like, what do I sing? Do I do a group number, do I do an off the wall solo, do I dress up weird? Should I do Marilyn Manson?"

Santana overhears and rolls her eyes. "Hold up there, Edward Cullen. Don't forget to breathe."

Mike has to suppress a smirk. Santana continues.

"Also, nobody wants to hear you sing Marilyn Manson. Nobody wants to hear _Marilyn Manson_ singing Marilyn Manson, let alone some Asian chick who thinks Twilight is the best vampire novel she's ever read. Jeez, you sophomores make a big deal out of everything."

Tina pouts, looking petulant.

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Santana. Butt the hell out."

Santana gets up and goes to join Brittany by the piano. "Nobody ever does, Jacqueline Chan. Nobody ever does." She waggles her fingers at them, smiling sweetly, and shimmies off.

"That bitch!"

Mike thinks Santana can read minds, because that was exactly what he was thinking, but he tries to look sympathetic. "I know."

Rachel turns around. She's gotten a fringe over the summer and Mike can't decide if it makes her look older or younger.

"She's just jealous, Tina. Ignore her."

Mike doubts that Santana would be jealous of anyone ever, but he thinks it's much more sensible to keep his mouth shut.

"I know, but…"

Tina is still talking, but he's caught Finn's eye and he's still looking really pale and Mike remembers that he has to _sing_ and really, breathing didn't use to be this hard.

Finn smiles wanly and Mike feels the dread form in his stomach. He smiles back, trying to hide his despair and he thinks it works. He hopes it works.

(Because if he can't convince them he's happy by now, everything has been for nothing.)

Think positive, Mike. Frank Sinatra, eat your heart out. Or something along those lines.

(Oh hell. God save them all.)

* * *

><p>"What do you think of the assignment?"<p>

Glee Club has finished and Mike is the only one left in the choir room. It presses down on him from all sides.

(No one left to filter the memories. Wait, no, not going there.)

"Well, it's definitely a big challenge."

Mr. Schue smiles, satisfied. Obviously what he wanted to hear. Good.

"We all need to be challenged if we want to get through Sectionals. The competition is going to be really tough this year."

Competition is always tough. That's why it's called competition. Mr. Schue needs to stop saying random motivational stuff.

Mike changes the subject before he bites his tongue off.

"What did you have in mind for choreography?"

He's back on solid ground. No one can touch him here.

Mr. Schue's eyes light up.

"Ah, yes, choreography. Obviously we need the simple stuff, y'know, the stuff that looks effective when you're in a group. We can do that no problem. Hell, even I can come up with that stuff."

Mike begs to differ. His jaw aches from holding his tongue in.

"What I need from you is some more complex choreography."

"I can do that."

Mr. Schue smiles and it's the first one that's halfway genuine. "I know."

Mike can't help the warmth that spreads in chest. Sometimes it's just nice to be noticed.

"Did you have a song in mind that I could choreograph?"

Mr. Schue shrugs. "We're not really that far along yet. We're still not a hundred percent sure who we're going against at Sectionals. Just think about it, ok?"

Mike nods, looking at his watch. Another five minutes to go.

"I was also thinking –"

A knock at the open door. Mike's head snaps up.

And really, he should've _known_.

Samuel's standing there, out of breath, chest rising and falling like he's just run a marathon.

(Mike has a similar reaction. Breath seems to be eluding him today.)

"Can I help you?" Mr. Schue asks politely. Mike wants to laugh at the weirdness of it all, but he's too preoccupied.

If only breathing wasn't so _hard_.

"Is it… Can I audition? For Glee Club?"

And, fuck, it just became harder.

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><p>AN: Thanks to all of you that reviewed. My day gets brighter with every one.<p> 


	6. What Is, What Isn't and What Should Be

_**What Is, What Isn't and What Should Be**_

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><p><strong>AN: There are no excuses. I apologise profusely. But look, I come bearing fic!<strong>

**Enjoy.**

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><p>"<em>Is it… Can I audition? For Glee Club?"<em>

_And fuck, it just became harder._

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><p><strong><em>...it's a beautiful sight when you keep me running...<em>**

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><p>Mike is not the only one with a problem processing this sudden turn of events.<p>

"I… I'm sorry?"

Mr. Schue looks slightly shaken. Mike sympathizes.

Because _no one_ auditions for Glee Club of their own free will. There's always a point where someone has to convince them. Mr. Schue usually has to revert to his 'we are all worms, but you are a glow worm' speech.

And if Samuel isn't just the _unlikeliest_ candidate for social suicide.

"This is the choir room, right?" His eyes flick to where Mike is leaning against the piano and smiles slightly, chest still heaving. He raises his hand briefly in acknowledgement.

Mike is so, _so_ glad he has the piano to support him, because he swears his knees just gave way. His head starts to buzz again. He hopes beyond hope that it's the painkillers wearing off.

Because the alternative? The part where his head hurts because _some guy_ appeared and smiled at him? It's not very dignified.

(Not _normal._)

(He wonders when he's going to admit that Samuel isn't 'some guy' anymore.)

"Yeah, it is…"

Mr. Schue still looks as though he's been hit by a bus. But in a good way. Mike can see the smile threatening to bloom on his face.

(He's just scared to let himself _hope_…)

"I'm, um, I'm sorry I'm late," Samuel says, hoisting his bag further onto his shoulder. "I… there were some geographical issues. If it's too late, I can always come back when the rest of the club is around -"

"No, no, it's fine!" Mr. Schue has found his voice and, shit, it's loud as hell. Mike jumps and winces as his head twinges.

Damn enthusiastic people. They can't do anything quietly.

"I mean, sure, it'd be better if they were around, but it doesn't really matter. We're always looking out for new members."

Samuel smiles, exhaustion etched into his face. Mike wonders where he ran from.

"Cool."

"Awesome! Mike, you don't mind staying while Samuel auditions, do you?"

Well. Um. _No._

"That's f –"

"Great! Well, Samuel, when you're ready."

Mike raises his eyebrows at the back of Mr. Schue's head. Just once, _just this once_, can he hit him? Not too much, mind, no permanent damage or anything. Just enough to make him remember _not to cut people off in the middle of their sentences_.

(He's getting tired of it.)

Then Samuel catches his eye and grins.

It's all blinding and brilliant and _I know, right?_

And suddenly he feels a whole lot more lenient towards Mr. Schue.

Mike reminds himself that this kind of exchange is perfectly normal and doesn't _mean anything_. They shared a ride this morning – it makes them less than strangers. That's _all_.

(It isn't.)

Samuel pushes himself off the doorframe, his breathing more even. Mike berates himself for noticing.

"Can I borrow a guitar? I, um, forgot mine."

"Sure! Take your pick, they should all be tuned."

Mr. Schue deposits himself onto the piano stool, oozing excitement. His shock seems to have flown out of the window, replaced by the kind of boundless joy favored by kids in Kindergarten when it's their turn to use the swing.

And Mike?

Well, Mike is sensibly making his way to one of the safe, plastic chairs.

(Because he doesn't know how much more his knees can take.)

Samuel's bag hits the floor with a _thump_ as he surveys the guitars. His face settles into a mask of concentration, the tiniest of creases between his eyebrows. Picking the one closest to him, he hooks the strap over his shoulder and strums experimentally. It's a basic major chord, easy enough that even Mike knows how to coax it from the beaten up guitar that sits in his room, but when Samuel plays it –

_Dammit_. Mike needs to stop _thinking_.

(Stop _noticing_.)

Samuel seems happy enough with his choice, carefully manoeuvring his way to the front of the room so as not to knock any of the other instruments over. He flips his dreads over his shoulder and smiles, a brief stretching of the mouth that Mike is _not_ looking at, goddammit.

But then Samuel looks at him, and even with his averted gaze he can _feel_ it on the side of his face. In his temple, his cheekbone, the side of his nose, his jaw. It's almost too much to take.

He looks up and Samuel's eyes dart away, startled into flight by the sudden movement.

Samuel coughs.

Mike allows himself the tiniest of smiles.

Mr. Schue claps his hands loudly.

_Fucking oblivious inconsiderate-_

"Right! Ready when you are!"

(Mike reminds himself that he _shouldn't _be mad at Mr. Schue for ruining the moment.)

(But the left side of his face feels cold and empty and, well, it's hard not to blame him for that.)

Samuel tucks a stray dreadlock behind his ear, clearing his throat.

Then his fingers find the strings and his eyes close and it's like they've just entered a new dimension.

(One where, maybe, just _maybe_, it's ok to let feelings do what they _want_. Just for now.)

"_She lives in a fairytale, somewhere too far for us to find…"_

Mr. Schue is absent-mindedly tapping his foot, head nodding along to the music. Mike is trying desperately not to spontaneously combust.

"_Forgotten the taste and smell of the world she's left behind…"_

Mike's tripping, reaching for a railing that disintegrates under his touch, tumbling down.

He has never seen _anyone_ give themselves so completely to a song.

Not even Rachel, with her 'vocal pain' face, or Mercedes, arms spread wide, encompassing the room in sound.

With Samuel, it's more introverted, coming from somewhere deep inside him, cocooning him in his own little world of sound and _feeling_.

And it's fucking with his _mind._

(All these contradictions, all the _shouldn't _and _can't _and _won't _and _want_ that collides into this hellish, _heavenly_ black hole and his head is _hurting_, okay, this isn't _fair_.)

So he closes his eyes and just _listens_.

(It doesn't work. The image is burnt onto the back of his eyelids and he'll be damned if he can ever get it to leave.)

"_It's all about the exposure, the lens, I told her,_

_The angles were all wrong now…"_

Everything is upside down. He focuses, tries to distance the voice from the person it belongs to.

Is anyone surprised that it doesn't work?

(His voice - strength laced with vulnerability. He can hear it cracking round the edges.)

(He_ shouldn't_.)

"_She's ripping wings off of butterflies…"_

Mike has the urge to rub his eyes vigorously as a memory stirs, unwanted. His mother has a butterfly pendant. He gave it to her one Christmas. She never wears it.

Wait, no, that's not true. She wore it that one time. He remembers it bouncing off her chest as she tore his essay to shreds. His first B.

(His last.)

"_Not. Good. Enough_."

Each word punctuated by the ripping of paper. He watched in silence as the pieces fell to the floor.

(A sad day for confetti.)

"_Keep your feet on the ground when your head's in the clouds…"_

Mike can't remember the day he realized that kind of thing wasn't normal. It must've been a long time ago.

"_Well, go get a shovel and we'll dig a deep hole_

_To bury the castle, bury the castle…"_

And that's what he's doing, isn't it? Burying his castle. Hiding it from the people who could and would tear it down in the blink of an eye. His walls covered by three metres of snow.

Nobody's noticed. He's made it his life's work to keep it a secret.

But this _guy_ with his smile and his bad taste in music and his _voice_ that seems to be a portal directly to his soul –

Well. He just had to come along and start melting it, didn't he?

"_And make sure to build your house, brick by boring brick, or the wolf's gonna blow it down…"_

(Don't tell him what he already knows.)

(It's like a mirror to his soul.)

The last chord is played. It lingers.

Mike decides it's safe to open his eyes. He blinks at the sudden influx of light. The color balance is off – it's cooler, brighter.

It's strange what can change in a matter of moments.

Mr. Schue is grinning like Christmas has come early. Mike focuses on him. He's not ready to look at Samuel yet.

"Wow, that was… wow. You've definitely come to the right place, Samuel." He laughs dazedly. "Definitely."

"Yeah?"

Mike can't resist the pull. His eyes just seem to be constantly searching for North and it seems to be him.

He wonders if Samuel knows that he's just written Mike's soul onto the choir room floor.

(A tiny part of him hopes he does.)

"…can definitely use more people like you. Raw talent is hard to come across and it'd be awesome if you could join Glee Club."

Samuel takes the guitar from his back and sets it down on the floor. "Just like that?"

"Pretty much."

Samuel rubs the back of his neck. "I mean… Really? Shouldn't the rest of the club have more say in this?"

Oh no. Mike knows how the gears in Mr. Schue's brain turn, and he really doesn't want…

"Well, if you need a second opinion, I'm sure Mike would be happy to give you one."

…that to happen. Shit.

They're both looking at him. Mr. Schue swivels round, gaze expectant. It wouldn't look out of place on a puppy.

Samuel's watching him with that same unfathomable look. Mike swallows hard.

Could he just… turn off his eyes or something? So Mike can think without his brain short-circuiting?

Words. He needs words.

Turns out they are pretty important after all. Who'd have thought? Well, you live and learn.

"Mike?"

Focus, Mike, _focus_.

Look at Mr. Schue. Choose the safe option, the backdoor, the loophole.

"I…"

This is what should happen.

Mike should look at Mr. Schue. Tell him he agrees, that Samuel would be a great asset – they need more male singers anyway, right? Mr. Schue would grin, one of his million watts Broadway/small town heartthrob smiles that make Miss Pillsbury drop whatever she's holding. Mike should smile at Samuel, not quite looking him in the eye, and congratulate him. Mr. Schue would say something empowering and vague and send them off. Everyone would be happy.

(Nothing would be complicated.)

But it doesn't happen like that at all.

Because he finds himself looking directly at Samuel.

Which kind of shatters any hopes he ever had of this going the way it should.

(Sunglasses. He needs _sunglasses_.)

He's looking at Samuel and he's still so raw from the song that he can feel his emotions written all over his face. For once, he lets them stay.

This time, it's just too hard to fight them and he's _tired_, okay. Tired of having to.

"Yeah," he says softly, his voice breaking slightly. "Definitely."

Mr. Schue starts to say something empowering and vague, but Mike couldn't tell you what for the life of him.

Because Samuel is looking back at him.

(He thinks this feeling is called happiness.)


End file.
